


This Life of Blood

by kyrilu



Category: What We Do in the Shadows (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25459912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: The centuries carried him.
Relationships: Guillermo de la Cruz/Nandor the Relentless
Comments: 27
Kudos: 91





	This Life of Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be something plotty but it morphed into overwrought character study mush that I wanted to get out of my head, and ugh. I've come to the conclusion that I'm not smart or patient enough for historical research, and I admire those who are.
> 
> (I've patched together some rough backstory ideas for Nandor, but they're lightly alluded to & not entirely expanded...) 
> 
> I borrowed some concepts about vampires from Katsura Komachi’s manga Scarlet Freesia and Hana to Junketsu, and of course, Bram Stoker's Dracula.

_But now in blood and battles was my youth,_

_And full of blood and battles is my age,_

_And I shall never end this life of blood._

_-_ _“_ Sohrab and Rustum,” Matthew Arnold.

**i** **.** **f** **lowers**

The centuries carried him: the plains and peaks of Gospand-Diz in Al Quolanudar where he was born and raised; the hustle and bustle of Kayseri, taking refuge in the shade of the madrasah courtyard where he laughed and prayed with friends; and then there was war and wandering.

It was in Cairo where he officially met his first fellow vampire, though neither of them knew that name. It was she who told him – half-remembered now – “Did you know that if we’re particularly fond of a human, their blood will taste like flowers?”

He blinked open his eyes, half-drowsing over the qanun in his lap. “That sounds like nonsense.” Food was food, even if it took a while to adjust to his new source of it.

“It’s what I heard.” Barrah had been mentored by her monstrous patron, while he had not. It was something of a sore spot for Nandor, who had awoken alone with sharp fangs and cold skin after a failed siege.

Nandor pondered Barrah’s pronouncement. He remembered weeping over Jahan as he bit into succulent horse-flesh. His noble steed tasted a little sweet, a little chewy, and most of all, like sadness.

But Nandor was not a blood-drinker, then, and those were entirely different circumstances.

“Does that mean—keeping a human by your side like a vintner?” Certainly, he understood having servants perform menial tasks, but was it not some form of defilement to be sentimental over one’s intended prey?

“Something like that,” replied Barrah. She plucked the strings on her own qanun – she was in the process of teaching Nandor, although, truthfully, he could be a difficult student. “There was a girl once,” she said, between chords, “who tasted like water lilies. The plague got to her before I could have another taste. I never knew if it was only my imagination or not.”

The plague victims were still edible; however, they tasted foul. Nandor grimaced in sympathy and made himself focus on the strings underneath his fingers.

There had never been much music like this in Al Quolanudar, though there was plenty among the Turks. Dervishes who whirled to song, their robes like wings, while Nandor watched in surprise.

He was startled out of the memory when Barrah began to sing. He considered getting up and twirling a little, and he decided against it. Tomorrow night, maybe, but for now, he would graciously allow Barrah her nostalgia in peace, and then he would pester her to continue teaching him how to shoot fire from his hands.

Centuries later, he forgot his Egyptian friend’s story, until he read through his copy of _Twilight,_ and Edward told Bella that she smelled like freesia and lavender.

 **i** **i.** **memory,** **part one**

An immortal’s memory was a strange beast. Sometimes he remembered the names of the stars in his old tongue, which he used to count while on long journeys in between campaigns and on pilgrimage. Sometimes he remembered a particularly annoying tune that got stuck in his head all throughout 1927, which Colin Robinson still delighted in humming from time to time. And then there were things that you felt you would remember as it happened, something vicious and visceral, and that was what Nandor felt when he saw Guillermo underneath the spotlights at the theatre, stake in hand, shining.

 **i** **ii. dirt**

He managed to salvage the remnants of the soil from Al Quolanudar, dumping it into a blue-and-white vase that was lying around in the attic. It was Laszlo’s idea to try planting a plant, though, of course, Nandor would not grow anything like those sexy bushes.

So, Nandor sprinkled a few bulbs in there, sternly instructed Guillermo to ensure it had an advantageous placement underneath the sun, and at night, he checked on it and sprinkled water on its surface.

“You know, scientists have found that playing music contributes to the healthy growth of a plant,” remarked Colin Robinson. “Classical music is beneficial, while, conversely, rock music is detrimental and has the same effects as over-watering.”

The vase was thus entrusted into Laszlo and Nadja’s care when they were in classical or jazzy moods. That led to Nandor hovering over the vase in the music room, angrily snatching it away when the songs became too discordant or the lyrics too vulgar.

**iv. snake**

When Nadja told Nandor about the mysterious snake-vampire that had sired her, he recounted his own turning.

“When I was made into a vampire, I thought I was some kind of demon at first. There was this story I heard as a boy about an evil king who got tricked by the devil, who was in disguise as a cook. The devil asked for permission to kiss the king’s shoulders, and he said, okay, sure, and what do you know – hiss! Two snakes sprouted from his shoulders. They were hungry snakes who would only stick to a diet of human brains.”

“Ugh, brains,” Nadja said. “I am very relieved, very glad that we’re not zombies. So wormy and squiggly.”

“And no nutritious value,” Nandor agreed. “But this is about the metaphor of it all. Being a vampire is like that story, except _we_ are the brain-eating snakes and we don’t have to worry about extra appendages ruining our perfectly tailored shirts or capes.”

“Do you think that we can grow extra limbs if we tried?”

Nandor said, “I think that is a question for Laszlo and your bedchambers,” and she laughed and batted off.

 **v.** **s** **torm** , **part one**

“By the way,” Nandor said, leaning against the chaise lounge and looking into the camera, “I was a pirate back in the day. A _vampire_ pirate.”

Guillermo did a double-take. “You were, Master? I thought natural running water – especially salt water—is dangerous for vampires. You have to stay confined to the lower decks in your coffins…”

It was true: vampires couldn’t even fly over the ocean in animal form or otherwise.

“Shh, Guillermo! Don’t tell the world our weaknesses.” Nandor cleared his throat. “Sea water is incredibly perilous for vampires, but I was not afraid. I joined a group of corsairs who occasionally performed freelance work for the Ottomans. We had a good run. Thrilling battles. Plundered wealth. I designed our flag myself.”

He unfurled a folded red tapestry, revealing the symbol of a skull with fangs.

“Was every crew member a vampire?” asked the interviewer. “Where are they now?”

Nandor winced. “We were shipwrecked on a deserted island. Real Sinbad the Sailor or Wilson the Volleyball shit. Due to practicalities regarding sailing in the sun, half the crew were vampires, and the other half was not. It got pretty gruesome. Then the remaining vampires went mad from thirst and tried to drink each other’s blood.”

Guillermo drew in a sharp breath. “Wow. How did you get off the island?”

“I waited until they all killed each other and built a boat from their corpses.”

“…”

“Guillermo, that was a joke.”

**vi. animal, part one**

All great conquerors had their equally great—if not more great—horses. Rostam had his Rakhsh, who could trample lions. Even that drunk asshole Alexander had his Bucephalus.

With heavy sorrow, Nandor bade a barber to tattoo his horse’s figure and name onto his arms. Marked and striking, he would not forget his mount’s bravery and nourishment.

The first try was a bust, literally. The needle broke on contact with his skin. A fine needle of iron was procured, and there he was: Jahan, his head and his mane.

Unfortunately, the ink and charcoal faded away like a receding river, and the barber screamed and fainted.

 **v** **ii.** **sword**

The boy was nineteen and wide-eyed, and he did not know how to properly sharpen Nandor’s swords.

“They don’t teach sword sharpening to young men anymore?” Nandor grumbled, as he demonstrated how to use the whetstone. The blade had to be sheared against the oiled surface; then, sanded down.

“Um, no. Sorry.”

After Nandor finished, the sword gleaming and acute, Guillermo volunteered to do the next one. Nandor watched his new familiar, wary. Sure enough, a minute into the process, he hissed in alarm.

“The angle’s wrong. It’s going to come out uneven.” Nandor swooped in from behind, repositioning the crook of Guillermo’s arm and the dip of his wrist.

Guillermo made an apologetic noise, his brow furrowed in determination, and that was when Nandor realized that they were standing uncomfortably close. He stepped away – it wouldn’t do to accidentally drain his new servant, no matter how good he smelled – and let Guillermo resume his task.

This time, Guillermo’s work was up to par, and Nandor gave him a short nod. Guillermo beamed, and said, tentatively, “I think it’s pretty cool. That you were a vampire knight and everything.”

“Well, yes, I was a mighty warrior and conqueror. They don’t call me relentless for nothing.” It had been a while since he had talked about his military prowess. From time to time, he would reenact battles with figurines on a map, while Colin Robinson would interject running commentary. It could be a little tiring, but no one else in the household was willing to discuss the intricacies of skirmishing and feinting.

“When I’m a vampire, maybe I could have my own signature weapon.” Guillermo raised the sword high in the air. The flickering candlelight in the crypt reflected off the blade, and Guillermo, sweater-clad, spectacles-wearing, seemed like he had grown an inch or two taller.

Nandor scowled. “Be careful with that! And, yeesh, you’re only a month into servitude, Guillermo. Don’t be presumptuous.”

“Right,” Guillermo said, deflating. “But I just thought… it’s a cool sword.”

“Obviously.” Wait a minute— “When I agreed to take you on as my familiar, you told me that you knew how to polish swords. I said– _Do you know how to polish swords,_ _Guillermo_ _?_ – and you said yes. That isn’t a good start, a familiar lying to his master.”

“Oh. I thought it was a euphemism. A metaphor.”

“But you don’t know how to do that, either.”

**viii. love**

The trait that Nandor was most proud of possessing – aside from his bravery and ferocity and humility – was his generosity. He gave his love to others freely: to his violet-haired wives and his willowy servants; to the men who looked at him in the bathhouse, their cheeks wine-red from the heat.

This did not change when he became a vampire. In fact, he embraced it with abandon, enjoying the rush of taking someone underneath him as he bit them with wolf-sharp teeth.

Nandor, relentless, ravenous, his undead heart beating, his lifeless breath surging. Was he not owed such earthly pleasures, given this newfound power and hunger?

However, he had his limitations. Soon he learned to lay off his human servants collected over the centuries, because they tended to get demanding. Nandor did not wish to be saddled with someone who thought they should be rewarded with overbearing affection or immediate immortality after a quick blowjob. They were here to attend to his needs, not get too clingy or become too nagging.

It would be like fucking yourself on a wine bottle. First you think, ooh, this is a nice fit, and then you realize that there were glass shards up your ass.

So, this was something he would not – could not – give.

It was embarrassing, honestly.

There was a captive that Nandor’s pirate crew seized from a French ship, a stubble-faced youth who Nandor had claimed and subsequently chosen not to eat. He did his duties, trembling, murmuring _Ave Maria_ _s_ underneath his breath. He became enamored when Nandor shielded him from his fellow vampire pirates’ hunger, and he had asked out loud, in clumsy accented Arabic, if Nandor was some kind of angel.

There was a woman that Nandor had met at a speakeasy, who reminded him of one of his favorite wives – sharp-tongued Karani, who wrote poetry – and she became Nandor’s new familiar. She introduced the Staten Island house to radio and had a knack for fixing it when it got broken.

After every rejected confession or every boundary overstep, they would leave, or he would abandon them. It would take some time, but eventually, he’d move on to the next familiar.

He saw the question, lurking, laid bare and vulnerable, in Guillermo’s eyes. He did not answer it.

**ix. animal, part two**

He never took on another long time animal companion after Jahan. He rode other horses when he had to, but it was all temporary. In 1975, Benji bought Nandor a pet rock. It got lost somewhere in the house, and it didn’t turn up until 2011, when Nandor discovered the stone and magnanimously gifted it to Guillermo on his twenty-first birthday.

**x. storm, part two**

Nandor found Guillermo standing in the front yard, mini-fridge half-sunk into a sinkhole.

With a grimace, Nandor hefted it off the lawn, and he laid it onto the pavement.

“You came back,” he said. “Again _._ ”

“I thought I could get it out of here while you were all asleep. But…” Guillermo gestured to the sinkhole, clearly annoyed.

“Even if you’re a vampire slayer, you can’t do everything,” Nandor said. Still, he held back any other comments and studied his ex-familiar.

Guillermo was still… Guillermo. Dark curls, glasses slightly slipping from his nose, wearing an olive green sweater. There was no sign of that fierce vampire killer from two nights ago, except some cuts on his face. Frumpy, tired, and like always, utterly _human._

“I’m here for the fridge,” Guillermo said, striding over to it. “I’m not going to do the laundry or cleaning or… any of that.” But he seemed reluctant – waiting – half-glancing at Nandor.

Nandor said, “Fine. You weren’t mindful enough of the spider-houses, anyway.”

And the weariness, suddenly, was gone, replaced with the tight anger. “I – I really don’t know what else I expected. I saved all of your lives, and it didn’t matter. At all.”

“What do you want me to do?” Nandor said, bristling. “To praise you? Good job, vampire killer, for killing a bunch of vampires, even though you still abandoned your duties.”

“Yes, actually,” Guillermo bit back. “Would it hurt to say thank you? Because I took the time and effort to come back. I did care enough to stop you and the others from getting beheaded.”

“I caved in, Guillermo! I gave you breaks and a day off and better snacks. You know I don’t like caving. Everything was working fine.”

“But everything wasn’t fine,” Guillermo said. “You’re just – you’re Nandor the _fucking_ Relentless. You’re old and stubborn and everything else is… ants underneath your boot.” Nandor twitched. “No, don’t actually check for ants. I’m sure you did your best to avoid stepping on them, which isn’t my point. My point is that I was stupid for thinking that any of this really mattered to you. And I’m going to move on to whatever’s next.” He shrugged and gazed at the turning sky behind him; the stars, whose names Nandor had forgotten, which still looked different from this new world.

And, seriously, that wasn’t fair at all. “I still stuck up for you in front of the council,” Nandor reminded him. “And I have… missed you.”

Guillermo’s tone was softer now. “You’ll get over it, Nandor. Good luck finding your next familiar.”

And that was when Nandor felt a specter claw at his chest, the dark spirit that lodged into his very being ever since he had been remade on a battlefield.

He said, coldly, “Do you think this has been a hike in the park for me? That being a vampire is all pleasure and decadence and everything you ever dreamed of? Guillermo de la Cruz, remember that I don’t even have a _country_ _._ I have seen empires rise and fall and quarrel over the stupidest meaningless shit. I have seen weapons become more deadly, from sword blade to gun fire to Colin Robinson’s Tweeting accounts. I have hurt people who I probably shouldn’t have hurt, people who weren’t my prey, because I thought it would be _fun_ , it would pass the time--

“I could break your little vampire-slaying fingers one by one, if I wanted.

“Eternity has been way too slow, way too fast, and way too boring. How is it wrong, Guillermo, that I asked? _Stay._ Let things go back to the way they were, because we had a good routine going on, and I don’t see the use in changing things up for the moment.”

“And this is what’s wrong,” Guillermo said, glaring, an unmoved cypress. He didn’t act like he was intimidated in the least. “You’re selfish, Nandor. I may not be a vampire, but I’m still a person, and there are things I want, too.”

“Oh?” Nandor scoffed. He stalked up to him, stepping over the sinkhole, until he loomed in front of Guillermo. They were a breadth apart, too close in proximity, even with that decade in between them.

He heard it: the telltale hitch of Guillermo’s breath and the heightened drumbeat of his heart.

“So this is why you’re leaving,” he said. “ _This._ ”

Guillermo flushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.”

“It’s – whatever you’re suggesting, it’s not the entire reason. I’m not blind, for fuck’s sake. You made me dress you every evening.”

“And you should have remembered your place,” Nandor said, his lips curling in disdain. “I gave you responsibilities and a purpose. You agreed to it all, and now it’s bothering you?”

“Because _my place_ ,” Guillermo echoed, “isn’t under you -- beneath you -- shit. You know what I mean. You saw what I did in the theatre. You said you can break my fingers? Well, I can hurt you, too. I can stab you with the stake in my left pocket, or burn you with the holy water spray I have in my right pocket. I’m not the same dumb gullible nineteen-year-old who let himself get strung along with false promises, Nandor. Things have to change. Like it or not.”

So, he was done, then. Impertinent, impudent, and fleeting like all the rest.

“Go, then,” Nandor said. “Get out of my sight.”

And Guillermo, scooping up the mini-fridge from the curb, did.

Nandor closed his eyes, opened them, and he morphed into a bat. He flitted to the backyard, where the vase of the last soil of Al Quolanudar remained, and he wound his fingers around the neck of it.

He remembered how he had escaped from the island. There was a vampiric power that Barrah had told him about – one that took intense practice and immense concentration. To attain it, her mentor had attended a faraway school of black magic.

Starving and obstinate, he had reached for it. He reached for the sky and told it to listen. To bend the wind and shatter the heavens and amass the cold. And it had roared and thundered, and there was rain.

He had gathered up battered planks of the ship and let the storm bear him to his next home.

Now, he let the rains wash down. The soil in the vase needed watering, and maybe, from wherever he was, Guillermo would heard the thunder and realize it was yelling at him.

**xi. memory, part two**

He dreamed that he rode into battle, Jahan carrying them both toward glory. He dreamed that he was rollerskating with Laszlo, Nadja, and Colin Robinson at that old rink that later became a Zumba gym. He dreamed that his father took him by his hand and told him: “ _Soon,_ _my son,_ _you_ _must go_ _far away_ _to Anatolia_ _._ _Your mother and I_ _will miss you, but you’ll be safe_ _r there_ _._ _I trust that you_ _and your brother_ _will study hard and make_ _us_ _proud.”_ He dreamed of drinking blood for the first time and wondering if he would ever be clean. He dreamed of eating roasted sheep – cucumber – honey. He dreamed of holding his eldest son in his arms – of playing chess against countless friends throughout the ages – of rising with the sun and heeding the call to prayer – of flying, walking, sailing, from land to land, sea to sea, boots worn and wings weary–

And he dreamed of the night when Guillermo once pricked his finger sharpening Nandor’s sword, muttering, _Ow_ , and sticking it into his mouth. Nandor had given him a bandage – “ _A Minion band-aid for my minion”_ – and he caught scent of him. His blood smelled like sweet-bitter pomegranate flowers in the spring.


End file.
